


avian devotion

by wesninskis



Series: caeci caecorum [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Minor Violence, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Wingfic, rip chinese food, winged!matt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesninskis/pseuds/wesninskis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Matt has a thing for dumpsters, Chinese food is sacrificed to the asphalt gods, Foggy is a good bro, and Matt needs to stop bleeding everywhere for the love of god</p>
            </blockquote>





	avian devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to jasper for being the raddest beta ever and putting up with my dumb shit, who alternately named this fic 'blind dumpster demon'
> 
> also this was written well before season 2, like a little under a year ago, and i haven't had time to watch the new season so please do not spoil me for anything
> 
> this is the first part of a proposed series; if you want to see more in this 'verse let me know, i adore comments

Crouching near a thick-tinned dumpster, amongst the debris that naturally coalesced around such things, Matt Murdock moved his hands towards the smell of copper. The noise of it dripped insistently at the ground, small  _ tip tip tip’ _ s that made his lips twitch. Feeling his fingers glide across torn feathers and slick skin, he let out a low noise of irritation.

It had started normal enough; he hadn’t even been performing his “night job”, as Foggy had taken to calling it. It was broad daylight, a bright and warm Thursday afternoon. After losing a number of  _ Rock, Paper, Scissors _ games, he was sent to get lunch for the day. Really, Matt hadn't been paying the streets due attention. Just because Fisk was gone did not mean that all of the slime had been cleared away. It had simply congealed together and gone underground. When the power vacuum was filled, it came roaring back, rearing it’s ugly head again.

Walking back towards the office, Chinese bag in hand, he had let his senses wander out and expand, sweeping his city with the sort of tenderness a mother felt for their child, even if that child had a habit of throwing fits at their leisure. Because of that, he hadn't picked up the slightly elevated heartbeat that thudded inside the alley, ducked behind a long string of dumpsters, before it was too late.

He figured they thought he was an easy target - a blind man holding a cane in one hand and a bag of food in the other. A quick mugging, maybe an easy slit across the throat if he got too feisty. More than likely a gang initiation, if the smell of gunpowder and desperation was anything to go by. By the time Matt had realized that someone was there, it was too late to avoid the initial swing that connected firmly with his cheekbone and sent him stumbling backwards.

Having dropped both his food and the cane at the first graze of skin against his own, Matt dropped into a boxer's crouch, the bandages wound tightly around his chest straining futilely against the tape and stitching holding them shut. 

When the next swing came, a jab towards his throat meant to incapacitate him, he was ready for it, ducking underneath it easily and following up with a quick right hook towards his attacker's chin.

Feeling his scabbed knuckles split as he connected with the hard jut of bone, he let out a low growl, unwilling to acknowledge the small thrill that had run through him at the blow. 

Stepping back, he cocked his head, ear tilted in the direction that the would-be mugger had stumbled back, the soft sound of skin brushing against skin informing him that the man had grabbed his jaw where he'd been hit. 

“I'd suggest you leave now,” Matt suggested, his voice aiming for light and instead falling somewhere around a rough rasp, not quite as deep as his Daredevil tone, but certainly edging towards that territory. He sighed as the man spat a mouthful of blood in the general vicinity of his nicely polished shoes, landing with a disgusting and wet noise. 

He barely contained another put-upon sigh when he heard the sound of a knife being drawn out of the attacker’s pocket, the blade opening with a nearly inaudible click. 

“You’re going to regret this,” Matt informed him mildly, his voice slipping completely into its low and gravelly timbre. Without responding, the mugger darted forward and swiped sloppily at Matt’s throat, the blade shaking in his fingers, the sweat dampened flesh making slick noises against the metal hilt of the blade. 

Listening for the whistle of the knife through the air, Matt cocked his head to pick up the subtle nuances of the movements off the other’s shifting, guessing where he’d be moving before he ducked to move out of the way. Feeling the warmth from the man’s arm above his head and shoulders, he reached up and grabbed the mugger’s forearm, twisting and pulling towards himself. Giving the limb another sharp tug, he heard the satisfying  _ pop _ of the joint separating, but not before feeling the knife arc around to slice through the back of his suit and into the flesh below. 

Snarling, Matt grabbed the man by the front of his hoodie and shoved him, throwing him to the ground so he’d land on his now dislocated arm. The sound of the man screaming sent another thrill tearing through him, and Matt had to pause and consider why he was moving forward now. Was it for defense (not likely, he figured, seeing as the man was lying on the ground and making soft little whimpers at every exhale), or whether he just wanted vengeance for the burn of the knife wound and the waste of yet another suit.

Reaching down, he slid his fingers in the direction the knife had clattered until he located it, gingerly picking it up between his thumb and forefinger, waving it in the criminal’s direction.

“I’d suggest trying to get out of the whole gang business, kid. The next guy won’t be near as…understanding as me.” Turning, he slipped the knife into his pocket and was reaching down to pick up the Chinese and his cane before he heard the click of a hammer being cocked and the sulfur and charcoal smell of gunpowder. He froze, slowly raising his hands up, his head twitching minutely side to side to try and hear what the kid was doing.

“You cocky sonofabitch,” the man growled, his hand shaking with the effort of holding the gun in it, his dominant arm being out of commission. Matt heard the faint clicking and shuffling that went along with the jabbing of the gun. He heard the exact moment the would-be-mugger’s finger hit the trigger in his anxious gun-waving, the metallic click and burnt puff of powder immediately followed by a sharp and painful  _ bang _ .

Diving to the side, Matt hissed in pain as the bullet missed his spine and instead skimmed across his side, tearing through the flesh just below his shoulder. Landing in a sloppy roll, he got back to his feet, turning his head towards the hummingbird flutter of a heart and the sharp staccato of retreating footsteps. Groaning, he backed up until his back hit the far wall and slid down, leaving a smear of blood and a smattering of small downy feathers.

That’s where he was now, slowly bleeding from both his back and side, the bandages torn and hardly holding onto any piece of stability they once had. Panting at the strain they were putting against his ribs and therefore his lungs, Matt slumped forward, his head touching the filth-stained ground in front of him as the tattered wings erupted from out of the gash in his suit as the wrap finally gave away, the gray fabric straining and tearing completely to make room for the huge feathered appendages. 

Gasping raggedly at the feeling of torn flesh flexing and pulling, and the feeling of stretching muscles that had been atrophying slowly for weeks, Matt allowed himself three brief seconds of respite before straightening up and, using the edge of the dumpster, slowly getting to his feet, his wings drooping limply behind him like heavy, useless weights, hardly lifting at all when he attempted to coax them off of the ground.

Leaning heavily against the dumpster (trying to ignore the smell of rot and spoiled food that poured out from inside of it), he reached with his good arm to grab his phone from his pocket and commanded it to call Foggy.

Once the dial noise began, he relaxed slightly, staring sightlessly in front of himself as he cast his senses out, the threads of his awareness spreading out like an intricately woven spider’s web. He didn’t want to be caught like this, weakened and vulnerable with one of his biggest secrets hanging out for the world to see. Not hearing anyone nearby, or making that way any time soon, he pulled back so he was only monitoring the alleys and streets closest to the little area that he himself was crouched in.

“Hello? Matt? You there buddy?” Foggy’s voice crackled out from the phone, snapping Matt back into reality. Shaking his head, he repositioned himself with a grunt.

“Yeah, yeah I’m here. Look, can you come get me? Without Karen. There was, uh,” he paused, licked his lips, and continued, “there was an incident, and I need you to come get me and stitch me up. If you can’t, I can always try to do it myself.” Hearing Foggy mutter something quietly on the other end – presumably to Karen – he waited a moment before the static was replaced by Foggy talking.

“Of course I’ll get you. Where are you? What happened?” After hearing the confirmation that Foggy was indeed coming, Matt sank down to sit again, his wings splaying out behind him, the muscles around the covert feathers already aching from holding them up. 

“In an alley, near 5 th street. Sitting near a dumpster. Could you bring my jacket, and grab the roll of bandages I keep in my desk? I’ll be needing them.” Frowning when he heard Foggy let out a brief huff of laughter, Matt hummed out an inquisitive noise. 

“What’s up with you and dumpsters, man? And I got the stuff, I’ll be there soon. I told Karen you got yourself sick, so you’d better go by that story tomorrow, man,” Foggy snorted, his light tone strained with worry, although not as bad as it could be. The other man wasn’t overly concerned since Matt was still coherent enough to make complete sentences. After a moment’s pause, Foggy spoke up again. “I don’t know how bad off you are, bud, but I need you to stay awake for me, okay?” Matt hummed in assent and leaned his face against the slick-grime-crust of the dumpster wall, feeling the blood ooze from his wings and roll steadily down his side, pooling along the line of his pants at the hip.

His arm slipped down to rest against his thigh while he waited, his eyes fluttering shut as he concentrated on the area around him. A cat just crawled out of a metal trash can a back-alley away, something that smelled slightly of sour milk clutched in its teeth. In an apartment on the third floor, a sick toddler was crying, loud and high-pitched and desperate while their father cooed and bounced and sighed. The more he listened, the more all of the noises seemed to blur and meld and smooth together until everything was one big background cacophony, covered in a layer of thick mental fuzz. He was barely aware of the sound of furtive footsteps, signaling Foggy’s arrival, and he grunted in greeting when his friend stopped in front of him.

“Matt? Matty? Shit,” Foggy sighed, dropping a paper bag next to the dumpster and crouching down to slap gently at Matt’s face. Cracking an eye open to show Foggy that he was awake and paying attention, Matt grunted again, slightly louder, before speaking. “Hey, Foggy,” he croaked, peeling his face away from the dumpster. 

Patting Matt on the face again, Foggy turned his attention to his friend’s injuries, clucking at the wound on his side. While he probed the edges with his fingers to find the extent of the damage, Foggy spoke again. “You’ve lost some blood, but it doesn’t look like too much. A couple of stitches will fix this one up, and…” he paused as he pulled one of Matt’s wings out to look at the gash there, “this one seems mostly superficial, will probably be fine with just a butterfly bandage or two.”

Nodding, Matt cocked his head in Foggy’s direction as the other man stood. He heard the crinkling of the paper bag and the whisp-slide of fabric. “I got your jacket, although I’m pretty sure you’re going to get blood all over it. I don’t know if dry cleaning will even get that out.” Holding out his arms, Matt grunted as Foggy helped heave him to his feet before grabbing the jacket in his fingers and wrapping it around his back.

“You look like you have a giant hump on your back without the bandages, dude. I can’t put them on here though, you’ll have to wait until we get back to your place,” Foggy said, snickering slightly at the image. “Yeah yeah, laugh at the poor injured blind dude,” Matt griped, adjusting his grip on the coat so he could grab the crook of his friends arm. 


End file.
